


Savour These Final Moments

by theLadyLazaruss



Series: The Coda Continum [3]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Angst, Blow Jobs, Dubious Consent, Dubiously Consensual Blow Jobs, Episode: s03e06 Dolce, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Under-Desk Blow Jobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-07
Updated: 2020-10-07
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:21:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26869615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theLadyLazaruss/pseuds/theLadyLazaruss
Summary: ACT FOUR: Dolce - The Dining Room SceneWill: "He's under the table, Jack..."Jack: ".....ew."
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Series: The Coda Continum [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1663306
Comments: 10
Kudos: 96





	Savour These Final Moments

**Author's Note:**

> I've been meaning to write this forever.

With the intimate hush of a whisper, the sweet, aching piano of _Goldberg Variations_ kisses Will’s ears. Next was the hiss of a Bunsen burner, alive with a _whoof,_ and the decadent sizzle of butter soon after. There is a warm light here, candlelight, reflected off the glint of the carving knife in Hannibal’s capable hand.

Both of them are perfect here, at this table, handsome in fine suits, neither of them battered or bruised.

Will was dreaming. This was his muffled dream. Distantly, he knew he was in pain. Distantly he knew he _should_ be afraid… but despite everything that Hannibal had done to him, he had never felt afraid of him.

“I can almost taste the butter,” Will smiles, mouth salivating.

“Taste and smell are the oldest senses,” Hannibal replies, mincing the spring onions, “and the closest to the centre of the mind.”

“Parts that precede pity and morality.”

Hannibal smiles so beautifully, all teeth and crinkled charm. Will slips the offered hand into his own and tastes his breath as they kiss.

“They play in the dome of our skulls,” Hannibal whispers, the kitten touch of his fingertips over Will’s forehead and through his curls – this touch inspired such love and ache – “like miracles illuminated on a church ceiling. The ceremonies and sights and exchanges of dinner can be far more engaging than theatre.”

Hannibal kisses him, plush comfort, and white noise. The world rolls into this kiss.

Falling, falling, falling. A lolling swirl of muted colour and pain, rushing back as Will began to surface.

Will swallows, apprehensive. He looks deep into Hannibal’s eyes and sees only darkness. “What’s for dinner?”

“Never ask,” he smiles, “spoils the surprise.”

Awake is not the word Will would use.

Sights and sounds lagged between his body and his cognition, until movement flowed like a smeared image on sandpaper, particles caught against the rough grain of his tired and pained thinking. Hannibal seemed to stutter, only a few feet but still a great distance away, lengthened by the way his ghost hung behind him, trailing parts of his silhouette. This real Hannibal isn’t as immaculate as his Hannibal, the one in his dreams; this one was battered, dressed in subdued, practical clothing.

In front of Wil was fine white linen, and china and silver. His head lolled, overtaken by the stark cleanliness. It felt like a mockery. It was a mockery.

A sting in his arm. Hannibal caught him as he swooned. A belt was tightened against his chest. It was hard to decipher the order of things. As the room swims, Hannibal’s face becomes his own. Why did that make this more bearable?

“I do not indulge much in regret, but I will be sorry to be leaving Italy.” Hannibal stirs the porcelain pot on his placemat. “There were things in the Palazzo Capponi I would have liked to read. I would have liked to play the clavier and perhaps compose. I might have cooked for the Widow Pazzi. When she overcame her grief.”

Hannibal finally raised his head. “I would have liked to have shown you Florence, Will.”

He felt an indescribable ache. “The soup isn't very good,” Will blubbered through a fat mouth.

Hannibal smiled, a sad, weighted little thing. “It's a parsley-and-thyme infusion, and more for my sake than yours. Have another sip, let it circulate.”

Will does, pliable to Hannibal’s wishes, and through the haze, noticed a third, and final place setting at the other end of the table.

“Are we expecting company?”

“We were interrupted before we could enjoy our dinner, Will.”

The words fell like droplets of arsenic. Will knew who was coming.

“Our last supper,” Will whispered.

“A repast. Of a sort. There is a sense of completion here. Or could be, should everything fall together again.”

Will’s eyes burned. He couldn’t tell if the tears fell. He was a single slab of ache and fog. He didn’t feel himself. The spoon was placed back onto his bottom lip and thin, bitter broth spilled down his chin. Hannibal hesitated and caught it with his finger and gave it back to Will. The roughness of the killer’s skin hissed against the scratchy scabs of his mouth. The finger dipped in further than necessary, touching teeth and touching tongue. Hannibal’s fingers tasted of salt, and freshly minced spring onions.

It was the most Will had been touched in almost a year. It felt like divine restitution. It had all been worth it, for this one last touch.

The fingers probed, skirting along his teeth. Will made a subvocal sound and slid his tongue between them.

“Why did you come to Florence, Will?”

“’old you.”

Hannibal removed his fingers, and Will’s bowling ball head rolled. Each imaginary skittle knocked against the back of his eyes. He was mumbling in protest, mouth blubbered, wanting the fingers back. He lunged and caught Hannibal’s mouth with his own, licking inside it. Hannibal jolted, completely taken by surprise, caught between pulling away and pressing closer. When Hannibal’s lips began to retreat, Will begged with a broken whine.

“Hannibal…”

“Will,” Hannibal whispered. “You only ever say my name when you want something.”

“You never stop… saying my name.” Hysteria bubbled inside Will, a dead man’s courage, stoked by the ache of rejection. “How soon did…” talking was such an effort, “did you make Bedelia regret... following you onto that fucking plane?”

Will could see it like a projected film; how Hannibal moped and pined, reckless in his dramatic grief and love; how much he failed to live up to Bedelia’s expectations when she realised Hannibal was just another sodden heartsick fool.

Hannibal seemed to consider it, lips pouted. “She made her choices.”

“You know what they say about... playing with your food... Dr Lecter.” Hannibal shot him a look and Will met it and raised an eyebrow. _Am I wrong?_

“Dr Du Maurier has impressive survival instincts.”

Will snorted, shockingly rude. The drugs were wearing off; his mental clarity was returning in stages, even if his limbs were jellified. “She told Jack how you would be caught.”

Hannibal made a soft noise and offered another spoonful of bitter soup. He was ruffled. _Good,_ Will thought as he sipped the soup.

“And then… then she told me.”

“What did she say?”

“ _Whimsy,"_ Will sighed, a mockery of Bedelia’s careful lyric, “ _lost in self-congratulation… at your own... exquisite taste and cunning_ –”

“And you and I are just alike,” Hannibal interrupted.

The grief came, sudden and entire. Those quiet nights by the fire still held their sacred hush of unreality. In Will’s mind, they still spoke and breathed together, shared lungfuls and pleasure, traded kisses like gifts and touches like dinner, their limbs entwined and voices raised in sweet, strained chorus, cast like church bells, through the carpets and bed sheets; where molecules still held the vibrations their precious moments of love.

_We’re both alone without each other._

“Were you lost in self-congratulation when we had sex?” Hannibal asked.

Horror gripped Will, iron fingers around his lungs and spine.

Hannibal continued, his accent thick. “Your own exquisite taste? Your own cunning? Tell me, Will, did Jack instruct you to fall to your knees? Did he instruct you to take me in your mouth? To swallow me? To spread your legs and open for me?”

The decadence of those words from Hannibal’s mouth, the carnality; the taint of sacred memories. 

_Those moments were everything to me._

_Tell him. TELL HIM._

Tears fell down his cheeks, and he couldn’t speak. What more could he say?

Hannibal pushed his chair back and lowered himself to his knees.

“Wha–?”

“There are many things I would like to have done and, whilst I may not be able to accomplish all of them, I can ensure what comes next is the best it can be.”

Hannibal ducked under the table, and pulled the chair back in behind him, hiding himself. Will looked to the door, panting, as wide and hot hands slid themselves up his spread thighs.

“Han–”

“I intend to savour you, Will,” Hannibal said. Lithe fingers plucked and massaged at Will’s tailoured slacks, their familiar touch and knowledge pooling deep, inescapable heat inside him. “Every part.”

“Hannibal, don’t–” but when had false nos meant something to Hannibal? When he knew Will wanted it too?

“Relax, Will,” the air was cold against the flushed head of his cock, “and enjoy your achievements once more.”

Hannibal’s mouth was plush sin, a hot and wet luxury. There was no shyness, no teasing. Just tongue and lips and cheek that enveloped and swallowed him down. There wasn’t enough air in the dining room.

“Hann–Hannibal–” Will curled his toes in his shoes, “Hannibal, please–”

Hannibal ignored him. His tongue lapped Will’s circumcision scar and swiped over Will’s head, massaging the shape of it, encouraging the bubbling slit.

There was a time when Will had been content with chastity; sex was for other people. Hannibal had changed that. Hannibal had teased and coaxed and invited, presented opportunity after the next to properly _love_ –

A firm, demanding hand closed around his length and began to stroke. Will’s head fell back, less a conscious action and more the rolling of coiling muscles, his spine arching, his jaw yawning. It had been so long–

Will wanted to run his fingers through Hannibal’s hair, scratch his scalp the way he knew he liked, feel the hunger of him in his hands, but he was tied to this goddamn chair, held down and exposed, forced to take what he was given–

Will’s voice broke behind his teeth in a shuddering moan. He tried to buck, tried to keep the room from spinning. Hannibal smiled around him, all teeth, and sunk to his hilt, sliding Will’s entire cock along the length of his cradling tongue. 

Memories surged – their first time, their tenth time, delicacy and ferocity and submission and delightfulness. Hannibal had shown him _so much_. Will never knew he could sing like this.

Hannibal had shown him what it could be like to live without pretence, without censor or shame. Hannibal had taught him how to breath

A hand cupped his sac, squeezing and pulling and squashing relentlessly in time to the rise and fall of Hannibal’s head. Occasionally, the warm metal band of Hannibal’s wedding ring caught against his sac. Will stared at the ceiling, eyes bulging, tears losing themselves in his curls and under his collar.

Will had been content with life before Hannibal, before Hannibal had unspooled him, nourished him and loved him. 

Being gutted hadn’t hollowed him out; it was being left behind. And Hannibal was going to do it again. 

Will sobbed through the pleasure, moaning with abandon now – what was the point in holding back? 

Hannibal sloppily pulled off, panting. His hand continued pumping, grip a shade too tight, twisting at the head, and thumbing his glands. It was a class act. Will expected nothing less.

They didn’t speak. There was nothing to say. Will squirmed in his seat. Pleasure spiked and pooled deliciously; the adrenaline and oxytocin flowing through his blood would be seeping into his meat, flavouring it with a delectable sweetness for Hannibal to enjoy. Will twitched and grunted, hitching his hips in time. Hannibal had penetrated and consumed him in every possible way – there was only one way left.

“Wh – _uhg_ – what’re you gonna eat first?” Will panted.

Hannibal buried his face into Will’s crotch and sucked a testicle behind his teeth. “My remarkable boy,” he murmured, “I do admire your courage. I think I’ll eat your heart.”

The sound of an elevator echoed faintly through the corridor, almost quiet enough to be ignored. Jack was coming. Hannibal buried Will’s cock into the back of his throat. Jack was coming.

Pleasure coiled and rose, whipped up by terror, exclaimed in choked, sputtering gasps as Will tried to keep quiet, tried to hold back-

Will stared into Hannibal’s unwavering gaze. His mouth was swollen and the red hue of the eyes was bright, complemented by bubbling tears. 

Hannibal wasn’t going to stop. Even if Jack entered the room and put a gun to his head.

“Fuck…” Will gasped, shuddering. He jolted when Hannibal chuckled around him. “Make me cum.”

Hannibal raised an eyebrow, laying a plush lick to the underside of Will’s cockhead. 

“Do it.” Will growled.

Another gentle kiss. It would be easier, Will thought distantly, as the hands on him sped up and the pleasure coiled in his belly, if Hannibal wasn’t so loving. 

The _creak_ of the door. Will could hear the slow whisper of Jack's boots on expensive carpet. 

_Oh God. He’s going to hear._

Will screwed his eyes shut, Hannibal’s hungry face imprinted into his skull. Will's jaw dropped, his throat firing, but his mouth was suddenly shoved full with a soaked hand, muffling his scream. The force of his voice vibrated Hannibal’s fingers, which tickled his cheeks as pleasure whited out his world. 

Hannibal didn’t stop, sucking every last drop. Will missed the little smile on his face, the satisfaction; Will’s ecstasy was just as beautiful as his suffering, and Will missed the moment that soft love turned to melancholy. Hannibal gave Will’s cock a mournful, last lick. The ex-profiler jumped and arched, silently begging for more, begging to be overwhelmed completely. Wil never knew half-measures; only passionate contradictions, but Jack’s footsteps were quickly approaching. Hannibal tucked him away.

Jack crept into the room, gun aloft. He breathed with forceful steadiness. The room was silent but for the sizzle of butter. Jack puts his hand on Will’s shoulder, face scrunched in suspicious confusion.

“He’s under the table, Jack,” Will mumbled. He saw the glint of the knife in the moonlight as an arm shot out and Jack crumpled to the floor with an agonised grunt.

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Ahh Please let me know what you think!!!
> 
> If you come, you comment :P (although this isn't my usual porn; it's far sadder :''''( )


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